


Turn Right

by Gonzai



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Explicit Language, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Procedures, Medical Trauma, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 08:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3970270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gonzai/pseuds/Gonzai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the night the Devil of Hell's Kitchen collapsed at Foggy's feet, Claire makes a decision, not a big decision, just a small, common sense one, that changes the world for everyone. </p><p>AU from Ep 10 forward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One thing that bugged me about Daredevil was that in 'Speak of the Devil', Nobu first gutted Matt, then dragged Matt across the floor. That is a major surgery/quite possibly fatal injury and the show hand-waved it. Heck, they hand-waved half the injuries they showed Matt receiving. Thus, a fic dealing more realistically with the injuries Matt would have received in the Nobu fight (and the subsequent Fisk pounding, window crashing, dip in the Hudson & how the heck did he get back to his apartment after that?), and a decision by one character that would change nearly everything afterward. 
> 
> The title is inspired by the Doctor Who episode 'Turn Left', in which the fate of the world - and the universe - was determined by whether Donna Noble turned left or right at an intersection. Also because I think Charlie Cox would have made an cool Doctor Who.

College Park, Maryland

August, 2018

 

            Matt sat back in his chair and half-heartedly wiped an armful of sweat from his face. When he had accepted this job, he'd been told that a summer on the Chesapeake Bay was like being water-boarded with a wool blanket; as it turned out, that was an undersell. It had been hard for him and his suboptimal lungs to breathe the last couple months, and now a rolling blackout had fried what was left of the building's air conditioning. That brought the temperature in his office way above 100 degrees, which didn't help. He'd been this hot before and he really, really didn't care to experience it again.

            The heat wasn't the only thing wrong for him lately; his back and shoulder ached, his stomach hurt and he'd had no appetite since last week, the last time the temperature had gone below 90. His concentration was gone and his head was swirling; he'd been trying for two hours to make sense of the decision he was reviewing and it just wasn't happening. Then again, nothing much Justice Alito wrote ever did make sense.

            The knock at the door nearly bowled him over; feeling like crap made his senses even more acute than usual. "Yeah," Matt answered half-heartedly.

            Barb stuck her head in the room. "We finally got word, we're shutting down early today because of the AC."

            "About time." Matt gratefully put his laptop in shutdown mode.

            "Hey, you want something done promptly, don't ask the government," Barb admonished. "You want me to call the shuttle?"

            "Please."

            "You know you look like a fish that's been a dead a week?" Subtlety was not Barb's strong point.

            "I feel worse than that," Matt answered. "I was starting to think I'd go home sick."

            "Well, now you can do that and get paid, too. Sometimes, things work out," she sighed. "Don't forget about tomorrow, though."

            "Sorry. What's tomorrow?" Matt finished packing his briefcase.

            "The fourth graders from Bowie? You're supposed to tell them how awesome the law is?"

            "Right. That." The best and worst part of his job was speaking with groups of kids. Best because you never knew if one of them would take what you said to heart; worst because mostly the kids just pitied him for being blind. "Gotta find that one kid who'll become a civil rights lawyer."

            "Find that kid, you'll be up for sainthood."

            Matt flinched internally. "Pretty sure they hold sainthood for people who've actually been inside a church lately." He found his cane and extended it.

            "I got the door," Barb advised.

            "Thanks." He tapped just to make sure. Barb had the radio on in the lobby, tuned to the news as always, and Matt could follow the sound to the front door easily.

            "This, is NPR," the radio said pleasantly. "In New York today, the governor made his choice to replace Congressman Peter King for the remainder of his term. Governor Cuomo chose Manhattan businessman Wilson Fisk to finish King's term, subject to approval of the legislature. King was forced to resign following his indictment on bribery charges."

            Matt stood in the middle of the lobby, frozen as he heard the newscast. "Fuck," he said out loud.

            "Excuse me, language?" Barb admonished.

            "Sorry," although Matt wasn't at all. "I just...I know..."

            "The guy going out or the guy coming in? I hope you don't know the guy going out, he's a piece of work. New guy's gotta be better."  
            Oh, Barb, you have _no_ idea, Matt thought glumly. Somehow, his day had gotten worse.

 

 

Hell's Kitchen, New York City

November, 2014

 

            "Shit. Ho-ly shit." I must be really drunk, Foggy thought. That, or there were drugs in the booze he drank at Josie's. Because there was no way he was standing over the bloody, almost-a-corpse of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Also known as Matt. There was no way. Matt was not the masked man. He couldn't be. Except that it was definitely Matt lying on the floor at his feet wearing what was left of a ninja outfit and gasping for breath.

            Vaguely Foggy realized he was still holding Matt's cane defensively and dropped it like it was suddenly electrified. His best friend was bleeding and choking in front of him and what was he doing? Assessing his own sobriety. Yeah. That'll help. Foggy dropped to one knee beside Matt, dug through his pocket and retrieved his phone. This time he really was calling 911.

            Or not, as the case might be. Foggy had barely pressed the 9 when Matt half-flailed, half-swung his left fist at Foggy's arm; Matt missed the arm but sent the phone flying across the room. "No," Matt barely whispered. "No hospital. Claire."

            Was Matt nuts? No hospital? "Matty, buddy, you're bleeding everywhere. You gotta go to the hospital. I'll go with you. You'll be okay."

            "No!" Matt croaked louder. "Claire. Call."

            Alright, common sense wasn't going to work. That was common sense, right? Take him to the hospital? But Foggy had known Matt long enough to know that if Matt really didn't want to go, he wouldn't. And who was Claire? Unless she was..."The burner phone girl? That's Claire?"

            Foggy decided that Matt's weak cough counted as a 'yes'. He grabbed both of Matt's phones, picked the one that didn't look familiar and clicked. Only one number in the memory. Foggy hit call and glanced back down at Matt. "I hope I got the right number. I hope I got the right _phone_."

            There was a click. "Matt? Where are you and how bad is it?" The woman on the other end, presumably Claire, sounded pretty. Pretty and kinda pissed.

            "Ummm..." Oh, real smooth Nelson.

            "Matt? Matt?"

            "Hi. Is this Claire?" Better but still needs work.

            "Who is this? Where's Matt?" Now she sounded worried.

            "I - I'm Foggy. Matt's law partner. Matt's on the floor. At his place, not the law office, that would be even weirder than this already is, which is pretty fucking weird."

            "Foggy. Okay. Matt mentioned you. You're at his place? And yeah, I'm Claire." She sounded slightly less worried and a lot more confused. "It must be really bad."

            Sounds like this is not a first-time event for her, Foggy thought dismally. And she's his first call, not me. "Um, yeah. He won't let me take him to the hospital, but he's bleeding from all over and not breathing too good. I think things are broken."

            "That sounds like Matt," Claire answered dryly. "I'll be right over."

            How normal is this for her anyway? "Okay. Do me a favor, and hurry?" Foggy clicked off the phone. Matt hadn't moved for several minutes. If he hadn't been struggling for air, Foggy would have thought - well, what would I have thought? he wondered. And then he did start thinking.

 

           

            Wesley clicked off his phone and was immediately sorry he did so; Fisk was still glowering and with no one on the phone to overhear, Fisk was probably about to read him the riot act.

            "The masked man?" Fisk growled.

            Wesley flinched. "No sign of him in the river or any of the docks, ten blocks either way. I don't know how - "

            " - I don't care how. I care that he is dead. I want a body." Fisk stared out the window for a moment. "By the end of today."

            "Yes, sir."

            "Wesley."

            "Yes, sir?"

            Fisk smiled grimly without turning around. "You always do take care of everything, Wesley. Everything."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might - might - have watched certain parts of Episode 9 in slo-mo. Or freeze-frame. You never know.

           Claire stood outside the door to Matt's loft, hand raised to knock but not quite reaching the door. Not yet. Claire was taking it on faith that the man who had called her was the 'Foggy' Matt had mentioned; surely, the fact that the caller had Matt's phone would suggest someone who knew Matt. But the last few months, since meeting Matt, Claire had learned to question things.

            And so her hand was still mid-air when the door opened to reveal a disheveled, shaggy-haired man not quite this side of sober and on the verge of hysteria. "Are you Claire? Sorry the place is a wreck. You're Claire? Wow. You are hot. But you're Claire?" he babbled at a breakneck speed.

            "Yes, I'm Claire. You're Foggy?" He looked vaguely familiar, but mostly he just look panicked. "Where's Matt?"

            "Um. Couch. I didn't know where else to put him." Foggy grabbed one of her arms and started pulling her behind him. "A hot nurse. Matt always finds the hot ones."

            "Slow down!" Matt had been moved. That was not good. But Foggy clearly wasn't a medical professional and there was no reason to point out his mistakes. Or that he was being a bit rude. Or...

            "Oh, shit," she heard herself say.

            There was a blood trail across the floor, then a smear of blood all the way to the couch. Foggy had left Matt in that crazy ninja outfit, but there wasn't much left of the outfit, or of Matt. He seemed to be bleeding from twenty more places than the night they first met, and she could tell from across the room that the gaping wounds across his abdomen were trouble.

            "Wait. Oh shit? I didn't think nurses were supposed to say stuff like that," Foggy fretted.

            "We're not," Claire admitted.

            "It's really bad, isn't it?"

            Nurses aren't supposed to lie, either. "Yes. Can you help me?"

            "I..." Foggy was finally quiet for a moment. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Okay. What do I do?"

            Good question. Claire looked over Matt quickly and tried to take in as many things as she could. She knew from habit she'd need to get his shirt off and stitch up plenty of gashes; this time, though, there would be a lot more than stitching. Matt was soaking wet, and a quick touch told her he was ice cold. "Towels. Blankets. We need to get him warm."

            "Okay. I - I can do that." Foggy went in search of the requested items and Claire had a moment alone with Matt.

            "Matt. Matt, can you hear me?" His left eye was nearly swollen shut; when she touched what looked like a broken cheekbone Matt flinched. "You really did it this time, didn't you?" His only answer was a weak moan. She was amazed he managed that; so far, she knew or suspected a dozen broken bones, a dislocated shoulder and a lot of deep cuts. She didn't bother removing his shirt, but cut it off instead. The wounds across Matt's stomach were even deeper than she had feared, what oozed from them was not just blood, and the smell confirmed multiple, internal injuries. Whatever Matt had been stabbed with, it had torn through his intestines, probably tore up his liver. Oh, and they were almost certainly infected already. Matt belonged in a hospital. Period.

            Foggy returned with a couple of towels and a blanket. "Help me get his pants off," Claire instructed. Foggy looked aghast for a moment, but gritted his teeth and got to work pulling off Matt's boots. Together they pulled off the remains of Matt's wet clothes, and Claire dried Matt as best she could and wrapped him in the blanket. Foggy had retched a bit when he saw the gashes on Matt's legs and torso, but he managed to hold it together. There had been no sound or movement from Matt in several minutes, so she was pretty sure he was unconscious, and she hoped he would stay that way.

            "What's next?" Foggy asked. He was finally composed, so now was a good time to tell him.

            "You call 911 and get an ambulance over here."

            "What?" Foggy was immediately back to panic mode. "I tried to do that before and Matt tried to punch me! He said no hospital! He really means it!"

            "I know, I've had this discussion with him...a lot. But this time - he's got to. He's been partially disemboweled, for starters, and if he doesn't go to the ER, he dies." Claire was trying to convince herself nearly as much as she was Foggy. Her nurse instincts were adamant; her personal ones, reluctant.

            As if to answer her doubts, Matt suddenly gasped, convulsed and vomited. Mostly blood, mostly on her, before he collapsed back towards the couch. Claire managed to catch him part way down and realized as she did that the wounds on Matt's back were much worse than she first thought. He was sliced through to the bone.

            "Lie still, Matt. Don't make it worse. Stay still," she whispered to him. Matt didn't answer her, but instead he went limp in her arms. "We're going to take care of you, Matt." She turned back to Foggy. "Phone?"

            Foggy shook his head slowly. "He is going to be really pissed."

            "Can't be pissed if he's dead. Are you calling or am I?"

            Foggy took his phone out of his pocket and stared at it. "What the hell am I supposed to say? My best friend is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and he got knifed by I dunno who, could you give us a lift?"

            Claire thought a moment. "He's not wearing the mask, or any of the rest of that outfit. How would they know he's the Devil if you don't tell them?"

            Pause. "They wouldn't," Foggy agreed.

            "He was mugged," Claire continued on, thinking faster as she went, "a gang of some sort, beat him and stabbed him and dumped him. It's raining now, they won't ask how he got soaked and cold. And you found him and brought him home and called a nurse friend who said to call an ambulance."

            Foggy stared at her. "You're hot, and you can lie like a rug. Do you have a sister? That - that might even work." He fingered the phone again, then punched 911. "Got any details I can practice before they get here?"

 

 

The Next Morning

 

            Karen raced down the hospital hallway as fast as her heels would allow. She hadn't been able to sleep, as her mind kept racing, wondering what she could have done differently that might have saved Elena. By dawn she had decided to stop worrying about what she should have done and start worrying about what she should do. She concluded that there had to be something in the court files about Fisk that she missed. She intended to be waiting at the front door when the court opened, and as a result she was already dressed and writing down her plan of action for the day when Foggy called.

            When Foggy told her it was about Matt, she wondered what he'd tripped over, bumped into or fallen on. Never once had she thought Matt would be attacked. She supposed she'd been naive to think Fisk wouldn't be so low as to have a blind man beaten. Foggy said he didn't know who'd beaten up Matt, but she knew, it had to have been Fisk.

            Foggy hadn't said how bad it was, but for someone as stubborn as Matt to be in the emergency room, she knew it had to be very bad. By the time the cab dropped her off in front of the hospital, her imagination had run wild with horrific scenarios, and by the time she reached the nurses' station, she was so flustered she almost ran right past Foggy without recognizing him.

            "Hey! Hey, whoa," Foggy jumped to his feet and ran after her. "How do you run in those things?"

            "What?" Karen stopped herself so suddenly she nearly fell over, but Foggy caught her first. "Not very well, apparently."

            "If it lands you in my arms, you can keep doing it not very well," Foggy set her upright all the same. When all else failed, she could count on Foggy to be a gentleman. He looked awful, though. Exhausted, hungover, unshowered and unshaved, and...covered in blood.

            "Foggy! Are you hurt? Oh my God, what happened?"

            "It's okay, Karen, it's not mine." Foggy paused and reconsidered what he'd just said. " _I'm_ okay. It's not okay. It's Matt's blood..." Foggy's voice trailed off and he dropped into the nearest chair with a thud. "Shit, what a night."

            Karen grabbed another chair, dragged it next to Foggy and sat down. "What happened? From the beginning, what happened?"

            "Um..." Foggy stared at the floor. "So, ah...I went to Matt's place to talk, and when I got there, I saw - I saw this bunch of guys whomping on somebody, and I figured that wasn't fair, and I yelled and they ran off. And I went to see if I could help, and...it was Matt. They were beating on Matt. I took him inside but he was bleeding everywhere, and he told me to call Claire - that's the girl he won't talk about - and Claire said bring him here. So I did. And now we're here. And they haven't told me anything since then." Foggy was now on the verge of tears. "For all I know he died."

            "No," Karen told him, as much for herself as for Foggy. "They would tell you if Matt had - if he - " And now she was crying. She couldn't stop herself. Everything was going so, so terribly wrong. It wasn't fair. They were the good guys, they weren't supposed to make things worse. Poor Foggy, he looked so tired. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Foggy, go home. Sleep a little. I'll call you if anything happens. I promise."

 

 

            Karen was right; he needed the rest. After a couple hours sleep, a shower, bad coffee and a change of clothes, Foggy felt much better, at least physically. Mentally, he was rapidly building a huge list of questions and possible grievances regarding Matt. He still couldn't believe Matt hid a secret like that from him, and for so long, but he was also still baffled by how he actually did what he did as the Devil. And the answer increasingly seemed to be that Matt wasn't - never was - really blind.

            Returning to the hospital, though, shocked Foggy back to reality. Karen wasn't waiting alone now; she was waiting with Brett.

            "Hey, thanks for coming, I didn't expect - "

            "Save it," Brett cut him off. "I came to take a crime report."

            "The hospital called the police station. Protocol for a possible crime," Karen explained.

            "And I happened to get the call and yes, I volunteered. I want to catch whatever kind of sicko beats down a blind guy," Brett finished.

            "So this isn't a personal favor and I don't owe you anything? Cool," Foggy answered.

            Brett fumed. "I didn't say that."

            "Well, you sort of did."

            Karen had had enough of this conversation. "Both of you shut up. Now."

            Foggy knew better than to argue. He sat down and shut up. Brett hadn't learned yet. "I need his statement - "

            " - not right this second. Sit. Down."

            This wasn't awkward at all, sitting quietly and fidgety on one side of Karen while Brett sat on the other side of her, committing acts of assault on a ballpoint pen. And none of them was going to be the first to speak. Karen, at least, seemed to be enjoying the silence.

            Fortunately, at that moment, a doctor finally showed up, the first one Foggy had seen since arriving that morning. Naturally, the doctor addressed Brett first. Bad move on his part.

            "Are you here to take the report on - "

            "Is Matt okay?" Karen demanded.

            "Um..."

            Brett was happy enough to start talking again. "I'd recommend answering her questions first. Just saying."

            "We're Matt's friends," Foggy interjected. "He doesn't have any family."

            The doctor looked at all three of them in confusion.

            "What happened to Matt?" Karen demanded again.

            The doctor conceded defeat. "Well...Mr. Murdock presented with shock, severe blood loss, sepsis and mild hypothermia. We've given him several blood transfusions and additional fluids, and those conditions are stabilized. But, there's a lot of trauma."

            Brett was writing down notes and without looking up, he spoke. "I need all of it, for the report. The DA will need everything if we're going to get the creeps who did this."

            It dawned on Foggy that for once the police were taking a 'crime' seriously, and naturally the one they were taking seriously was an imaginary one. Foggy gulped and hoped no one noticed. Claire's story worked initially, but now Karen blamed the wrong people (sort of) and the police believed it, too. False police report, a misdemeanor, but it's definitely a disbarrable offense. Boy is this a mess, he thought miserably.

            "Okay, everything. Ready to write, Sergeant?" Brett nodded and the doctor started on the list. "Fractures and contusions to several of the right metacarpals. Dislocated and separated right shoulder, fractured right scapula, broken left collarbone."

            Karen was turning greenish.

            "Concussion, fractured cheek and orbital bones on the left side, jaw fractures both sides. Eleven broken or fractured ribs. Bruised right kidney. Severe lacerations in multiple locations, the stitch count's well into the hundreds. The cuts on his back and leg severed the connective tissues, that's possibly crippling damage."

            Karen was definitely green now. Foggy thought Brett might have turned the same color, except how would anyone know.

            The doctor too a deep breath. "Now, all of that...it's a lot, but none of those injuries, by themselves at least, are fatal. The cuts to the abdomen, however...the longer one perforated the large and small intestine. The smaller cut is almost three inches deep, punctured the liver and just missed the major blood vessels. There's a lot of room for complications. Starting with infection, we cleaned out as much of the abdominal cavity as possible but with the amount of foreign materials and bacteria that leaked inside, he'll develop peritonitis, probably within 24 hours. We're giving him every possible antibiotic, but all that can do is help him fight it."

            Brett had stopped writing a few sentences back. "Shit," he muttered. "Was this a beat-down or a hit?"

            Karen had buried her face in her hands and was sobbing. Foggy wasn't completely surprised by the list, having actually seen Matt, but now it was sinking in on him why Claire had been so upset. Matt was probably going to die. And here Foggy had been, ready to yell at him for not mentioning the whole Devil thing. He hadn't even said it yet and he wanted to take it back.

            The doctor looked uncomfortable. "Is there anything else I can tell you?"

            Karen looked up. "Can I see him?"

            "He's unconscious..."

            "I want to see him."

            Foggy stared at the doctor and was vaguely aware that Brett was doing the same thing. It worked. "Five minutes, just her," the doctor relented.

            "Thanks," Foggy said as the doctor and Karen walked away. He turned back to Brett, feeling a little embarrassed. "I guess you need my statement? We better hurry, I think I need to find a priest."

 

 

            Karen stayed in the waiting room all day, in spite of Foggy's insistence that she needed sleep herself. If Matt woke up, if something went very wrong, she was going to be there. Period.

            That didn't mean she was completely on top of things, though; she forgot to turn off her cell phone, despite the plethora of signs specifically demanding just that. And sure enough, she got a call late that afternoon and had to apologetically excuse herself to the outside.

            It was Ben, and he was worried. She'd completely forgotten she was going to call him with anything she found at the courthouse, and under the circumstances, Ben thought the worst had happened. He was right about the worst, just not about the person.

            "That's - I can't believe they'd be so despicable. I never thought for a moment they might target Matt," Ben said in disbelief.

            "Me neither," Karen admitted. "I've been watching my back, like you told me, but I never thought...and Foggy, he's unraveling... You were right, Ben, you were right. We never should have gotten involved in this."

            "Seems to me more like they involved you first," Ben said gently. "But now, we kicked the hornet's nest. I think we should lay low for a while."

           Karen couldn't believe it. "We can't quit now! I know there's something more I haven't found yet, we can still bring down Fisk!"

            "Karen, Karen, honey, listen to yourself," Ben chided. "Matt is in the _hospital_. He's damn near dead. What do you think will happen if you throw kerosene on the hornets? They can finish him off, just like that."

            Foggy had joined Karen in parking lot, looking at her with concern. She mouthed 'Ben' at him and continued her call. "Okay, let's say you're right, and we back off. Then what? Fisk gets away with Elena? With Matt? With everything?"

            Ben sighed. "Sometimes, you can't keep fighting what you know you can't win. I'll keep my ear to the ground, maybe I'll hear something, but we stop investigating, now. You take care of Matt, and Foggy, and yourself. We can't do anything else."

            "It still feels like I should do something," Karen said, feeling very much alone despite Foggy attempting to tell her, in truly half-assed sign language, that he wanted to talk to Ben as well.

            "You are. You're there for Matt. We'll figure it out later, Karen, but not now. Just not now. You watch your back."

            "I will. I will. You, too, you be careful," Karen told Ben. "And...I think Foggy wants to talk to you." She handed her phone to Foggy and headed back into the hospital. As she was walking away, she could hear Foggy on the phone.

            "This is going to sound weird, Ben, but do you know what Catholic churches are in Hell's Kitchen? Or near it?"

 

 

That Night

 

            After much yelling, bullheadedness and general brouhaha, Fisk had finally calmed down somewhat, at least enough for Wesley to get him to sit down in the lobby and stop berating the medical personnel. The arrival of Fisk's personal physician had helped, as had the hospital's willingness to let Dr. Rosenberg assist. Wesley suspected their willingness was less about assistance and more about placating Fisk. Either way, Fisk was seated in the waiting area, silent and smoldering, and there was nothing further to be done until there was news about Vanessa. A cup of coffee was in order. Besides, anything to put distance between himself and Owsley was a good thing.

            The coffee was from an automated vending machine and tasted horrid. Ah well, Wesley didn't mind as long as he had the excuse to step away. There was a small seating area by the vending machines and he turned to sit, only to be more than a little surprised by who was already sitting there. The attorney Franklin Nelson and the recently troublesome Karen Page. They saw him at the same moment and were just as taken aback.

            "Just so you know, whatever it is, we're not taking the case," Nelson quickly blurted.

            "I just wanted coffee," Wesley responded, still somewhat bewildered at their presence.

            "It sucks. The coffee," Nelson offered.

            "I noticed." So much for his moment of peace. "Really, that's all I'm here for, I had no idea you two were here, I'll be on my way."

            "To where?" Page asked suspiciously.

            "The...emergency room lobby."

            Clearly Page wasn't satisfied with that answer. "For what? You're never anywhere by chance, are you?"

            Not normally, no, but for once... "Just chance this time, Miss Page. Mr. Fisk...has a very sick friend we just brought into the emergency room. I truly had no idea that you were here. And you'll probably want to avoid that lobby for the time being, assuming you'd rather not see Mr. Fisk."

            "And why would you assume that?" Page was still skeptical. She probably had cause to be.

            "Poor choice of words. It's just not a night for confrontations."

            Nelson snorted. "You can say that again."

            It occurred to Wesley then, that Miss Page was angry with him, but Nelson was angry about someone or something else. There must be a reason they were there. And Mr. Murdock was conspicuous by his absence. "Not to pry," - of course that's exactly what he was doing - "But, what brings you here at this hour?"

            Miss Page reddened. "As if you don't know," she snapped.

            Nelson grabbed her arm and tried to shush her. "Not now," he admonished. He turned to Wesley, half-apologetically. "My partner, Mr. Murdock...he was mugged last night. He didn't have any cash, so they beat him up pretty bad..."

            "The men that you hired - " Nelson clapped a hand over Miss Page's mouth.

            "The men I hired?" Fisk hadn't given any instructions about dealing with Murdock. At least, not to him. Frankly, Murdock was pretty far down on the priority list. And he couldn't imagine Fisk giving the command to someone else. "Miss Page, I have no idea what you mean."

            "Well, you know, you and Fisk kinda have a track record with Karen. And me," Nelson interjected quickly. "Old habits. You go back to your guys, we'll stay here, no confrontations, we all make nice for now. Right?"

            "That sounds very reasonable," Wesley answered, but his curiosity was piqued. "I'll see if I can't keep my - guys - in the emergency room. This isn't the time or place." And he exited the room quickly, dumping the still nearly-full coffee on his way out. There were too many coincidences. Nelson and Page just happened to be here. Murdock just happened to be 'mugged' to the extent of serious hospitalization - it wasn't lost on Wesley that the vending area was adjacent to the ICU - and on the very same night that the masked man was nearly beaten to death.

            Wesley decided to make a stop at the nurses' station on his way back. He suddenly had a sneaking suspicion who the masked man really was.

            He didn't quite make it to his destination; Fisk called him over first. He wanted Vanessa out of the country, as soon as possible, and set up with plenty of funds, immediately. Wesley promised he'd do so. After all, it didn't seem like Matthew Murdock was going to be a problem much longer.


	3. Chapter 3

Day Two

 

            Karen had returned from her first, brief visit with Matt in tears; she went straight to Foggy and hugged him, and he hugged her back. Mostly because he didn't know what else to do at the time. It was weird to finally have what he wanted - Karen in his arms - at the cost of likely losing Matt. It might have been the most awkward moment in his life, which, he had to admit, was pretty awkward pretty much all the time.

            It had occurred to him later on that he was lucky that Matt hadn't been awake when Karen saw him. Brett had mentioned that, if Matt was ever able to speak, he would have to be interviewed for the police report. And Karen might ask Matt how it happened. And if Matt could speak, to either Karen or Brett, what he said probably wasn't going to line up with what Foggy and Claire were saying.

            And so it was a small bit of luck for Foggy that when a nurse came into the waiting area to tell them that Matt was finally conscious, and one of them could visit, that Karen had 'gone out for some air' after their odd encounter with Wesley and hadn't come back yet. She was furious, at Wesley, at Fisk, at Foggy, at the world. Foggy was relieved she wasn't there.

            Of course, he was also terrified. The sight of Matt had broken Karen; would he be able to hold it together? And if he could, would he be able to stay cool and explain to Matt the...act of creative fiction...he and Claire had concocted? Not to mention, Foggy had a lot to say to Matt about the Devil, etc. but yelling at a barely conscious, dying man wasn't going to help.

            Foggy's first thought on seeing Matt was that he looked both better and worse. Better, because he didn't looked like a drowned rat or someone who lost a fight with a shredder; he was clean, stitched up and somehow seemed calmer. Probably on a lot of drugs, Foggy told himself.

            But Matt also looked worse, a lot worse, with tubes and wires of every kind all over his body, all sorts of metal things that appeared to be holding parts together, and machines of every type beeping and buzzing. A full array of bruises, scratches and contusions covered nearly every patch of skin that didn't have a medical device involved. The worst part was the tubes that ran from the horrific cuts on Matt's abdomen to a bag that was rapidly filling with something vile, and Foggy realized those tubes were draining the infection that was very likely to cause Matt's death.

            "Jesus," Foggy muttered to himself, his feet frozen in place.

            Matt's left hand moved, just a little. It was probably the only part of him not wired or tied down.

            Well, the nurse said he was awake. "Matt?"

            Matt tried to cough but failed. He tried to move his hand again, with slightly more success. "Fow?" he managed to whisper.

            "Yeah. Me." Foggy summoned up the courage to walk the last couple of steps to Matt's bed. "You look like shit, buddy."

            "Feel like it," Matt barely finished any of the words. He was still trying to force his left hand to cooperate.

            Foggy swallowed hard, then put his own hand on top of Matt's. Matt's hand was a little warmer than it should be. "Maybe try not to move, okay?"

            "'kay." Matt's eyes - well, his right eye, the left one was swollen closed and multiple shades of purple - darted back and forth as if he were looking around the room. For all Foggy knew, he was. "Hosp-al?"

            "Yes."

            Matt frowned. "Din' want..." He winced. "Hurts."

            "I'm - I'm sorry, Matt. I know you didn't want the hospital. But Claire said you would die, and, uh...well...I didn't want you to die."

            Matt closed his right eye. At first Foggy thought he was out again, but then he saw the tears.

            "Wha tell them?" Matt whispered.

            "We told them you were mugged," Foggy told him, feeling very useless. "That some guys jumped you outside your apartment, and I chased them off and brought you here." Foggy checked to see if there was anyone in hearing distance, dismally realizing he probably should have done that to start with. "They believe it. They don't know."

            "Hope...righ..." Matt grimaced and one of the machines started beeping faster. Foggy had seen that machine flashing '100.7' when he had walked in; now it flashed '101.5'. The nurse reappeared from nowhere.

            "You should probably go," she told Foggy.

            No kidding, Foggy thought. "Just one sec. Matt?" Matt lifted his head slightly, and Foggy squeezed Matt's hand just a bit. "Please don't die."

            Foggy let go of Matt's hand and left the room, feeling himself walking faster and faster the further away he got. He needed to get out of here. Now.

 

            The walk around the block had done Karen good. Not as much as a quick trip back to her apartment for a change of clothes and some sensible shoes, but it had calmed her down considerably. She was still angry, but she had it under control now. There was quite a lot of activity going on at the hospital, she noticed as she hailed a cab. She overheard someone saying something about poisoned champagne. She was beginning to have the insane feeling that maybe Wesley wasn't lying about being in the hospital by chance.

            He was lying about Matt, though. This she knew.

            She was a little surprised to find Foggy pacing the parking lot when she came back. More surprised to see he had been crying. Oh, no.

            "He's not...Matt's not..."

            Foggy shook his head. "Not an hour ago, anyway. He was awake for a couple minutes. But...his temperature went up over half a degree, while I was talking to him. Five minutes, maybe."

            "Oh, Christ."

            Foggy shrugged helplessly. "I can't go back in there."

            Karen hugged him tight. "It's okay. I'll go."

            "That didn't go so well earlier." Foggy looked at her quizzically.

            "I've sucked it up," Karen declared. "You get another half hour, then you have to suck it up, too, Nelson."

            "Yes, ma'am." Now he was really looking at her funny.

            "Half an hour. I mean it." Karen tapped Foggy on the chest before leaving him in the parking lot, baffled.

            The nurse on duty recognized Karen and gave her a sad smile. Karen felt any energy or optimism fade away instantly. "The infection set in," the nurse told her reluctantly. "His temperature is skyrocketing."

            "Is he awake? He wasn't before, I was just hoping maybe..."

            "I'll check," the nurse said, "but don't get your hopes up."

            A minute later, the doctor on duty came out. "Your friend's had a couple moments of consciousness, but he's out now. His condition is getting worse, a lot worse."

            "Could I see him anyway? Just in case."

            The doctor thought about it for what seemed like an eternity. Finally he nodded. "It couldn't hurt."

 

 

            Matt's head was spinning. He was dizzy, and weak, and thirsty, and he didn't know where he was or what was happening to him until he vaguely remembered Foggy being there. A hospital. Foggy had taken him to a hospital. Matt tried to remember what happened and could only see blades flying through the air and fists pounding him. What was I doing? How did Foggy find him? He couldn't remember, because his mind was too frantic.

            Maybe because he was scorching hot. Jesus, I'm hot, Matt thought miserably. He'd been in a sauna once - once - and this was worse. His world wasn't the only thing on fire, he was. He could feel heat pouring out of him, only to be replaced by more heat, and it seared and burned him. He was burning alive. Under the fire was pain, some he might ordinarily cope with and some that was excruciating. Breathing was torture. He could feel every rib crackle and tear with each breath. His belly felt like it was going to explode, the pressure inside it was so strong, it felt like his insides were being crushed.

            His senses were as always on high alert, and he wished he could turn them off. The noise was overwhelming, just the noise from around him, the hums and beeps and electricity and just _noise_ , grating and scraping at him. The smells were worse; blood, metal, more electricity, chemicals of every sort that he couldn't even identify, and the worst was a stench of blood, bile, shit, pus and decay that was stronger than the other smells together. The overwhelming odor of rot sickened him. And there was something familiar about the stink, very familiar, and Matt realized that the rotten smell was coming from himself.

            This must be it, then. This is what it's like to die slowly. It never really occurred to Matt that someday, he might die slow. He just assumed he'd be shot or stabbed and it would be over in minutes. He never imagined this. He didn't want this.

            Then the lightning bolts struck him. He couldn't stop them; he felt his limbs flail and his body contort, he felt stitches ripping and broken bones grinding against each other uncontrollably and he could do nothing to stop his own body, all he could do was scream. He was faintly aware of other people, rushing about, grabbing his arms, barking orders. Almost as soon as the lightning struck, it left him again, exhausted and terrified. Please, he thought, let me die. God, please, let me die.

            "Matt?"

            It was so far away he thought he was just imagining it.

            "Matt, I'm here." Ice cold fingers on his arm. The coolness felt good, if just for a moment before his heat melted the fingers away again. He knew that voice, didn't he? He should know it. He knew it.

            He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. His throat was so dry and raw he couldn't make a sound. He managed only to mouth the word. Karen.

            "That's right Matt, it's me. And Foggy's outside. You can do this, Matt. You can live," he could hear her crying.

            Can I? Do I even want to? I don't think I do. Matt did the only thing he could. He cried. The last thing he remembered was Karen's fingers brushing away a tear on his cheek, before he passed out.

 

            Foggy was waiting for her when Karen slowly dragged herself back to the waiting area. "I sucked it up," Foggy announced. "Now what?"

            "I don't know," Karen stammered. "He's having seizures, Foggy. He's tearing himself apart."

            Foggy sat down, dropped his head between his knees and muttered a string of obscenities to himself. Karen sat next to him, too tired to do anything else.

            It might have been one hour, it might have been six, but after a long time of sitting together wordlessly, Karen stirred just enough to look back at the nurse's station and made eye contact with the nurse, who quickly darted away. Brilliant, Karen, she told herself, scare away the people who know what the hell is going on.

            But a moment later, the same doctor from earlier walked into the lobby and pulled up a chair near Karen and Foggy. Foggy couldn't bear to look at him; Karen had to steel herself to do so.

            "The two of you are the only contacts we have for Mr. Murdock. We need one of you to make some hard decisions."

            Karen nodded; Foggy stared at the floor.

            "He had another seizure after the one you saw," the doctor nodded towards Karen, "he's septic, and his temperature is over 105 now."

            Karen was shocked. "How - how high can it go - before..."

            "Not much more. And he's having a lot of trouble with breathing, we've had to place him on a ventilator."

            "He can't breathe?" Foggy sounded pained.

            "He can, just - it's very difficult. The ventilator will do the work instead. One less obstacle for him."

            "What else?" Karen asked.

            "He needs more surgery," the doctor continued. "The seizures - Mr. Murdock pulled out a lot of his stitches, unset broken bones. There's a lot of repairs needed. We also need to drain the fluid from his abdomen, possibly more surgery on his internal injuries."

            "Okay," Karen said flatly. The doctor looked at her, confused. "You need someone to authorize that, okay. What do I sign?"

            "Well, yes, we need authorization. But there's one other thing."

            "Terrific," muttered Foggy.

            "Mr. Murdock is in a lot of pain -"

            "No shit," Foggy grunted and Karen kicked him.

            "- and the fever is having an effect on his brain. Overloading it. It's likely the cause of the seizures. We'd like to put Mr. Murdock in a chemically induced coma."

            "What?" Karen and Foggy said it almost simultaneously.

            "A coma would lessen the chance of seizures. He wouldn't be in pain. And his body would be free to keep fighting the infection without putting stress on his brain function. It's an extreme measure, but under the circumstances, it's probably the best option and the one most likely to protect his brain from injury."

            Foggy looked a little suspicious. "When would he wake up?"

            "If...if he can beat back the infection, we would withdraw the drugs and he would wake, on his own, in a day or two."

            "So it's like turning off the power?" Karen asked.

            "More like, leaving the computer on, but unplugging the internet connection. It still works and can do some functions, but there's no input so the processor doesn't have much to do. Still, it's a Hail Mary."

            Foggy looked at Karen. "So what do we do?"

            Karen thought for a moment. "I saw what the seizures did to Matt," she said slowly. "I think - I think a Hail Mary might be all that's left to try." She turned to the doctor. "Do it. Please. I don't want that to happen to him again."

 

           

Day Three

 

            Foggy wished he'd worn a heavier coat. It was getting chilly and he had four more churches to visit. Ben was a good man to know; he had a list of Catholic churches and affiliated places in and around Hell's Kitchen ready for Foggy first thing in the morning. Now all Foggy had to do was figure which one Matt had been attending. If Matt went somewhere in the Kitchen, that wasn't a guarantee.

            He sure hoped the right church was on his list, because they were running out of time. The doctors had placed Matt in a coma as Karen had authorized, and if nothing else, Matt couldn't feel anything now. That - that had to be a good thing, right? But his fever had gotten worse overnight, and in the morning, they told Karen that Matt's liver was failing and there was nothing they could do to stop it. 24 hours, tops, they said, before Matt was gone. And the only thing Foggy could think of that might help Matt, was if Matt had a priest that he talked to.

            And there was the other reason Foggy didn't want to be at the hospital right now; Brett had come back once, and another cop, one they didn't know, had also stopped by. They were both looking to get a statement from Matt (good luck with that) about what happened. Claire had - wisely - not stopped by after the first day, so she didn't have to keep her story straight for the cops. Foggy, not so much. Sooner or later, someone was going to figure out that he wasn't telling the truth, and then he was screwed.

 

 

            Wesley had been extremely busy the last day or so; so much so he hadn't had a lot of time to look into Matthew Murdock. Fisk was an immovable object in Vanessa's room, which left Wesley as the sole authority over the business. Furthermore, although he hadn't been able to produce the body of the Devil (which, fortunately, Fisk seemed to have forgotten about) he had reviewed Fisk's financial records while making arrangements to send Vanessa to Switzerland. The financials didn't make sense.

            Wesley wasn't an accountant by trade, and Vanessa's condition and Fisk's vigilance meant he hadn't had a chance of mentioning the discrepancies to Fisk. However, it gave him time for a more thorough review of the records, with the assistance of a well-regarded accountant who was not part of Fisk's organization, but did have certain - proclivities - that Wesley was willing to not mention to the press.

            This accountant confirmed the discrepancies in the records, and was also able to confirm Wesley's suspicions that they were not the result of errors or incompetence. Someone was cooking Fisk's books, and not the way Fisk wanted them cooked. Obviously it wasn't Fisk who did it, and Wesley knew he hadn't done it. That left one person. One very annoying person.

            It took quite some time but Wesley was finally able to convince Fisk that perhaps some food or a bit of coffee was in order, and Vanessa would be fine for just a short time. He deliberately led Fisk to a vending area as far from the ICU as possible, and once he had his boss eating some horrid concoction of preservatives from a machine, he brought up the subject.

            "Sir, about the funds you wanted transferred for Ms. Mariana's benefit?"

            Fisk didn't look up. "I still want that done. I still want her away from here, as soon as she's well."

            "Yes, I imagined so," Wesley advanced cautiously. "The numbers on the accounts, they didn't quite make sense to me."

            "That's what Owsley's for. Have him sort it out."

            "I - I took advantage of the extra day for a neutral review of the books." Fisk snapped to attention and glared at Wesley. "I have quite a bit of embarrassing information on the accountant, he'll say nothing, I assure you."

            Fisk calmed down, very slightly. "He'd better not."

            "He won't. But he did say, that a large amount of money is not where it should be. In fact, a lot of it is missing outright. This accountant tells me the records can't be in this condition by chance or error, someone has been siphoning your money."

            Silence, then increasing glower. "That someone would have to be Owsley."

            "Yes, sir. It would."

            "How dare he, how dare - "

            "Sir, just a thought. I don't know why he would dare, unless he has some manner of leverage."

           Fisk was simmering. "Agreed. Find out what he has. And arrange a meeting for me. And Owsley. That half-constructed building will do nicely."

            Wesley nodded. "Consider it done." And, he thought, consider myself _very_ glad I'm not Owsley.           

 

            Father Lantom was taking his daily moment to contemplate the Christ figure looming above the pulpit. His thoughts came back to the conversation he had at this time and place four days ago; he had not seen or heard from Matthew Murdock since then and there was nothing in the papers or whispered amongst the congregation to give him any more information. He eyed the giant Christ looming above.

            "I don't ask you for much, but a little news would be good," he said out loud. "I worry for that young man." He crossed himself and rose to head into the rectory for the night.

            The knock came at the front door before he had gone three steps. He opened the door to find a disheveled and distressed young man he'd never seen before. "Um...hi. Father?" the young fellow asked hesitantly.

            "I'm Father Lantom," he said pleasantly. "I'm afraid I don't recognize you."

            "Oh. I, uh, I'm not Catholic." He held up a scrap of paper. "I didn't even know what Catholic churches were in Hell's Kitchen, I had to ask."            

            "I see," although he didn't quite.

            "I have...I have a friend, he's really Catholic, I'm trying to find out where he goes. He's - he's in trouble, I think he needs...a priest, probably." The young man was turning beet red. "Oh, and my name's Foggy. Franklin. But everyone calls me Foggy."

            "All right then, Foggy, let's see if I can help you and your friend." If Lantom remembered rightly, Matthew's phone had rung with a call from a 'Foggy' and there couldn't be that many Foggys around. He had an inkling of hope as to who Foggy's 'friend' was. Even if he was wrong about that, Foggy clearly needed someone to talk to. "Would you like a latte?"

            Foggy looked flabbergasted. "Thanks, Father, but I think I'm pretty caffeinated as it is."

            Father Lantom smiled. "It's decaf."

            "Oh. Okay, thanks."

            Father Lantom guided Foggy back to the rectory and whipped up two decaf lattes. Foggy mostly stared around the room; he probably hadn't been in a Catholic church too many times. He handed Foggy his latte. "Now, son, let's start with your friend's name. Hopefully he's been here before."

            Foggy sampled the latte. "Hey, that's not bad," he noted. "Beats the junk at work. I make the junk at work, that's why." He took a deep breath. "My law partner," he said, "my best friend. His name's Matt. Matt Murdock."

            Lantom exhaled the breath he'd been holding for what seemed like an eternity. "You're Matthew's friend. Good. I've been worried."

            "You mean I got the right place?"

            "Matthew's been here a few times, recently. I've been counseling him."

            "Oh." Foggy pondered that. "I guess you can't tell me what about."

            "No, I'm afraid not."

            "Figures. Matt's got some serious secrets."

            Lantom couldn't disagree with that. "Where is Matthew?"

            Foggy looked downcast. "Hospital. ICU. The um, doctors, they don't think he'll last the night. I thought maybe he needs last rites or something. I think Matt would want that."

            His worst fears were correct, then. He sat back in his chair, absentmindedly turning the coffee cup in circles. "What happened?"

            "He - I went to his apartment, to talk to him, and I saw him getting beat up outside his building, a bunch of guys pounding on him and stabbing him...they ran off, I took him to the hospital."

            And was a word of it was true? "The truth, Foggy. What happened to Matthew?"

            Foggy stared. "How did you...Fuck. Sorry." Lantom waved off the obscenity. "I can't...tell..."

            "It's all right, son. It's not the sanctity of the confessional, but latte counseling is still confidential. I won't tell anyone."

            Foggy thought on this for a minute. "Matt would probably know the court case off the top of his head. I have no idea which case covers this." He swallowed hard. "Okay. I honestly don't know what happened to Matt. I really did go to his place to talk, but I found Matt on the floor, bleeding and bones broken and I don't know how or why or what." Foggy paused. "But you do."

            Lantom shook his head. "I don't _know_ , and if I did I couldn't tell you. But I suspected, the last time we spoke. And when Matthew didn't come back the next day...this is what I was afraid of." He set down the coffee cup, stood and reached for his coat. "Which hospital are we going to?"

 

 

Day Four

            Nothing had changed since Foggy had left earlier; Matt's temperature hovered over 106, and his doctors still doubted Matt would survive the next several hours. They were amenable to letting Father Lantom do his thing for Matt, though, and that made Foggy and Karen feel a little bit better. Hopefully it would help Matt, although Foggy had no idea how.

            Before Father Lantom left, he had scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave it to Karen. "The rectory number," Lantom told her. "Call me. When..." Karen nodded and tucked the note away in her purse. One thing Foggy knew for certain; Karen would call him. Whereas Foggy would lose the number in a matter of minutes.

            Foggy and Karen sat silently together for several hours. There was nothing else to do but wait. As the day became night, and Matt still clung to life, they were allowed to sit with him. Karen held Matt's hand, which was terrifyingly hot; Foggy sat back a bit, but he could still feel the heat radiating from Matt's body.

           "So what do we do?" Foggy asked, more rhetorically than seriously, as much to himself as Karen.

            "We wait," Karen answered, startled.

            "Besides that," Foggy said quietly. "I...I can't do the firm without him."

            Karen thought for a moment. "No, it won't work without Matt."

            "World's shortest stint as an independent firm," Foggy noted sadly.

            "Looking for a job again. I can't be laid off, like a normal person." Karen added bitterly. "Someone has to die."

            "Maybe you should call the Father back here and have him exorcise the bad luck out of you," Foggy suggested. Karen didn't think it was funny. Foggy decided to shut up.

            Matt was sweating, profusely. Foggy was sure his friend was beyond knowing he was cared for, but he decided to get a cloth and mop up Matt's face all the same. He hated seeing Matt like this. He hated being here. He hated whatever brought them here and he wasn't even sure what that was. "Dammit, dammit, dammit." He sat down and started crying.

            Karen took the sweat-soaked cloth Foggy was still holding and wiped away some tears. "We still have each other, right?"

            "That's all we've got." Foggy sniffed. "You know...it's been years since I even knew a life without Matt. I don't remember how to live without him around."

            Karen put her arm around him. "I'll teach you if you want."

            Foggy gulped. "I thought - I thought it was Matt you were interested in."

            She smiled. "Matt's maybe a little too interesting. A great friend, but I think he'd make a lousy boyfriend."

            Boyfriend? Did she mean...wait, Karen likes me! Foggy wasn't sure how to react to that, but fortunately, he didn't have to. Because at that moment, Karen noticed that Matt was soaked. She touched Matt's hand. "Oh my God, Foggy, he's - he's not as hot."

            On cue, a nurse came in to check on Matt. She confirmed Karen's observation; Matt's temperature was finally falling, if only a little.

 

                       

            Wesley stood well back from Fisk and Owsley, taking care not to be too close to any edges. It would so easy to fall from a place like this. Fisk hadn't chosen the location by accident. More importantly, the conversation between Fisk and Owsley was quite heated, and Wesley preferred observing to participating. Remarkably, Owsley still seemed to believe he had won, telling Fisk how much money Owsley had taken and how Fisk would never find it. Wrong. Wesley's compromised accountant believed he could find most if not all of the money. Owsley might be clever, but not as clever as he thought he was. Oh, no, he wasn't that clever.

            Wesley's phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the text message he had just received. Excellent. Fisk seemed to know Wesley had the news he needed, and a nod from Wesley was more than enough to send Fisk to a full offense.

            Owsley snarled back and seemingly made a threat of some sort, but then Owsley's phone rang. "You should answer that," Wesley called out, with an unavoidable smirk. Owsley did. And his face went ghost white.

            It hadn't been too hard to cross-check the real estate holdings and find the building that magically vanished overnight, the same night that Detective Hoffman had also vanished. The text confirmed that Fisk's men had killed everyone in the building, Hoffman included, except for one relatively harmless runt that had been let off with two broken legs, in exchange for calling Owsley with a situational update.

            Within moments, Fisk had excised his rage upon Owsley, pounding him to a pulp before heaving him down the elevator shaft.

            Wesley chuckled silently to himself. One shouldn't cross Wilson Fisk. Ever. Speaking of which, he had another research project he needed to get to work on; who was Matthew Murdock, really?


	4. Chapter 4

Day 5 etc

 

            Very slowly but steadily, Matt's fever receded. It never did quite get down to normal, but his temperature dropped enough that his body started to function again. He was nowhere near out of danger, but Foggy and Karen were assured that the immediate crisis seemed to be past.

            That relief only lasted a couple of days; no sooner did Matt overcome the peritonitis, but he developed pneumonia. Same problem a few inches higher, Foggy had said miserably. Once again Matt had a sky high fever, he had so much difficulty breathing that he had to be moved from a ventilator to a respirator, and again several of his organs threatened to shut down. The drainage tubes moved from his abdomen to his chest as his lungs verged on drowning themselves.

            And again, after three days of waiting and watching, Matt somehow stayed alive. For no particular reason anyone could find, his fever broke again and his lungs gradually resumed functioning. Two weeks after Foggy found Matt in his apartment, half-dead, Matt was apparently infection-free. The doctors put him back on a ventilator, and withdrew the drugs that had kept Matt in a coma, and told Karen and Foggy that Matt would wake up, soon.

            They were wrong.

 

 

December

 

            It was now a regular part of her daily routine; Claire would finish her shift, stop by the other hospital to check on Matt, and then go home. She stayed away the first few days after Matt was admitted, mostly because she didn't want to have to explain to a cop how she was involved. But after Matt's first close brush with death, the police seemed to give up on the case, and Foggy let her know the coast was clear.

            Sometimes she saw Foggy and/or Karen at the hospital, sometimes not, but usually one or the other was there. When they were both there, well, they were kind of cute together. Meeting Karen was a bit awkward at first, but eventually their mutual interest won out. Had they met under different circumstances, they might have become friends.

            Foggy was a different story. While they had not only a common cause but a secret that could ruin them both professionally, Foggy was treating her a bit on the cool side. She felt like he wanted to say something to her but was holding it in instead. But it wasn't her way to ask; if he wanted to tell her, he would. And one day, he finally did.

            He was waiting for her in front of the hospital. "Claire," Foggy seemed a bit embarrassed, "Uhh...take a walk with me?"

            "A walk?"

            "Well, somewhere other than here. I have to ask you something."

            "Okay. A walk, then." They both stood there, waiting for the other, but finally Foggy picked a direction. They walked together in silence, more than a block from the hospital, before Foggy finally asked.

            "What would have happened if we hadn't taken Matt to the hospital?" he asked rapidly, as if he wouldn't have finished the sentence if he didn't say it fast. "And don't say he would have died. I know that. I mean how. When."

            So that was it. The 'what if'. "Well...he lost a lot of blood before I got there. He was still bleeding internally and I couldn't have done anything about either of those things, so...he would have gone further into shock. He would have become septic. He might have held on 12 hours, he might have managed 36, but somewhere along the line his heart would have failed."

            "Would - would he have been in pain?"

            "Yes. Maybe not at the end, but before then, yes."

            "Oh."

            They walked on another block. "Did we do the right thing?" Foggy asked quietly.

            "I think so."

            "Are you sure? Because - I think all we did was make it worse." Foggy stopped. "It's been almost a month. Matt's in a living hell, and we still don't know if he'll even, if he'll ever -"

            "So you think we should have let him die that night in his apartment? Just sat there and watched him bleed out?"

            "Maybe."

            "No maybes for me. We gave him his best chance to survive. That's all that matters for me."

            "It's not enough for me!" Foggy barked, then tried to calm down again. "Okay, fine. You're a nurse. You did your job. I'm his friend, and I didn't do mine. All I've done is get my best friend tortured for weeks and no end coming."

            There it was. Guilt and plenty of it. Not that she didn't feel it herself; she'd had a passing thought or two that maybe, just maybe, she shouldn't have done anything that night and let Matt have the fate he certainly seemed determined to have. But Foggy was right, she did her job, and that kept her from regretting the decision. Foggy had no such protection.

            "Foggy, the only thing I can tell you is...if we had let Matt die, you'd be feeling just as guilty as you are now, maybe more. Except you'd be feeling it because maybe Matt might have lived if you took him to the hospital, but you didn't take him. And that is something I can't help you with." Claire turned away and headed for the nearest subway stop. She wouldn't be visiting Matt today. Maybe not again, ever. But she would never regret her decision that night, and nothing Foggy could say would ever change that.

 

 

           Things were going well, if radically different, at Fisk's empire. Fisk took Vanessa to Switzerland, all right; he married her there in a small ceremony attended only by Wesley and the necessary civil servants. Wesley didn't get a chance to enjoy Switzerland; Fisk sent him right back to New York to continue overseeing the business and its rather massive transition. Fisk was largely allowing Wesley free rein in New York, and at one point, while expressing his disappointment that Wesley had never turned up a dead Devil, Fisk indicated he no longer cared about the Devil so long as he never showed his face again. Love makes you blind, Wesley thought.

            Madame Gao had conveniently vanished before Fisk could turn his fury on her, and she took her heroin with her. Having lost their supplier, their financier and their distributor in short order, Wesley had to find replacements, and quickly. The neutral accountant suddenly became Fisk's primary accountant, but Wesley ensured that the man didn't have too much power over the accounts, and that he remained respectful of the secrets Wesley held over him.

            Wesley was far too busy to let his efforts stray from Fisk's business, but he did still have an eye on Matthew Murdock. The man just would not die. But if Murdock stayed in a coma, he was harmless. Likewise if he would finally die. And if by some chance Murdock both survived and woke up, Wesley had what he needed. Murdock would never trouble Fisk again.

 

 

January

 

            Matt felt like he'd been drained out and only half-refilled, he was so exhausted. He'd had some odd dreams over what felt like days, but he couldn't imagine how he could have been asleep that long. His throat was dry and raw and felt strange; his tongue was dry and he couldn't move it. Dimly, he realized there was something in his throat, something hard that pressed down on his tongue, tasted like plastic, and was very uncomfortable. Maybe not painful, but not pleasant, either.

            He couldn't move his arms, although given the pain that shot through his right shoulder and back, maybe he wouldn't try to move that arm again. Neither could he move his legs, and the left one hurt almost as much as his shoulder. There was an assortment of mechanical and digital sounds coming from machinery near him; when he concentrated, he could hear that one made a sound of compressed air and when it did, he felt his lungs fill with air and his chest hurt horribly. The tube in his throat. That was it. A machine was making him breathe, because as much as breathing hurt, Matt wasn't sure he'd bother trying to do it himself.

            He must be in a hospital. But he couldn't remember how he got there, or why he got there, or anything about what might have happened to him. Dammit. And something was off, something wasn't quite right and Matt couldn't identify it. Not until someone opened a nearby door; he didn't hear the conversation outside until the door was opened, and when it closed, he could hear the person who had come in, but that was all. Matt couldn't really smell or taste due to the tube, but...the tube just tasted like plastic. Nothing else. The sounds he could hear were all close, in the room with him. His senses were...normal?

            That possibility was both exciting and terrifying. Could he see again? Even if he saw poorly, could he see normally? Matt steeled himself and forced his eyes open. Nothing. The same darkness that had been there since he was nine. Except now there was no fire, either. Just nothing there. The disappointment crushed him.

            "Mr. Murdock? Matt?" He didn't know that voice, except that belonged to one of the people talking in the doorway. And he couldn't exactly answer her. He didn't know how.

            He felt cool fingers touch the palm of his left hand. "Matt, if you can hear me - can you close your hand?"

            Maybe. Maybe he could. His fingers felt like they were far away and not really a part of him, but he could feel them, and they didn't hurt. He gave it a try; two of his fingers fluttered a bit but didn't bend, the other two were so stiff he couldn't make them do anything. He tried again; this time his index finger bent a bit, just enough to touch the fingers that were touching him.

            "That's great, Matt. I'll be back in just a second." The cool fingers disappeared and he heard steps walking away from him, but not far. He heard her pick up a phone, and tell someone that 'Mr. Murdock is awake', as if it were something amazing.

            "The doctor will be here in a moment," the voice returned to his side. A nurse. Must be a nurse. "And if everything seems okay, maybe we can take out that tube. Does that sound good?"

            Matt wasn't sure if things sounded good or not, because they sounded so different. But getting this thing out of his throat would be nice. He tried moving his hand again, and this time all four fingers moved, although his thumb still wasn't cooperating. "Excellent. It's good to finally meet you, Matt."

            Finally? What did she mean by finally? Matt felt a dread settling on him, something he didn't understand and wasn't sure he wanted to understand.

 

 

            Most days, Karen went in to the office for at least part of the day, on the off chance there was actual work or clients. There wasn't much of either and Foggy wasn't coming in to work often, so there really wasn't any reason to linger there. Still, she felt that as long as there was a chance there might still be a Nelson & Murdock, someone should answer the phone.

            But yesterday and today, she had spent the day in the ICU waiting room. Something was different with Matt's condition; the doctors told her that there were changes in his brain activity that usually signaled dreaming, and that maybe, just maybe, Matt was asleep rather than comatose. Just in case, she told herself, if...IF...Matt woke up, someone should be there for him.

            "Miss Page?"

            Karen was so engrossed in a document review she almost didn't hear them call her. She looked up, hopefully, for good news.

            "Mr. Murdock is awake," the doctor told her, his own relief evident. It was the same doctor who had suggested putting Matt in a coma to begin with, and when Matt had failed to return from it, Foggy hadn't been too kind to him. "He can't speak, but, you can see him if you want."  
            The sense of relief was so great, Karen thought she might dissolve into a puddle. She did burst out crying. She couldn't help it; she had started to think Matt was gone for good. "Yes," she said between tears, "Yes, yes, I want to."

            Matt looked much the same as he had the past two months, except that now his eyes were open. Still unseeing, but moving in the direction of sounds. "Matt?" she said, her voice cracking. His eyes immediately moved in her direction and a corner of his mouth twitched upwards, probably as much of a smile as he could do right now.

            "We're leaving him on the ventilator for another 24 hours, precautionary," the doctor said from the back of the room. "But he has decent movement in the left hand. We're doing one close for yes, two for no."

            Karen barely heard him. Matt was back with them. The rest didn't matter.


	5. Chapter 5

One week later

 

            It turned out, a conscious Matt Murdock was a lousy patient. As promised, Matt was taken off the ventilator the next day, a procedure that wasn't pleasant for anyone. The nurse told Matt to cough out the tube, but then he couldn't stop coughing. Some pretty nasty stuff came out of his lungs, and of course, he pulled apart some of his almost-healed ribs again.

            Although Matt could breathe without the tube, it wasn't easy for him, speaking was nearly impossible, and a respiratory therapist was assigned to help him. Foggy now had new respect for therapists; Matt had balked at the very idea and wasn't very cooperative with the poor woman the first couple of days. "Murdock stubbornness, at its finest," Foggy had declared. In time, Matt relented; the therapy really did help.

            When Matt was finally able to eke out more than a word at a time, he wanted to know what happened. Other than the increasingly flimsy fiction about the mugging, there was nothing to tell him about how he came to be in the hospital; no one knew. Matt was devastated to find out he'd been in the hospital for 54 days. Foggy couldn't blame him. Having almost two months of your life disappear, without even knowing it was gone, he didn't like thinking about it. Actually living it? The idea gave him some serious creeps.

            Explaining what had happened with Fisk was an even harder story to tell. Mostly because the people involved all seemed to be missing. Foggy was unable to find out anything about Fisk's Japanese and Chinese connections; Owsley went missing; Detective Hoffman stayed missing. A young, intoxicated couple out on New Year's had made a very gruesome discovery - a mass grave. The police hand-waved it as a mob thing, but Brett had told Foggy confidentially that some of the bodies had been identified, and those bodies included both Hoffman and Owsley. Matt didn't take any of that well, but what was there to do, except take Ben's advice and lay low?

           Still, Matt was improving rapidly. Most of his flesh wounds had healed while he was in the coma, he had full use of his left arm now and he was trying to use his right arm. It was decided Matt didn't need to be in the ICU any longer, which Matt was fine with until he found out that 'not in ICU' equaled 'cleared for physical therapy'.

            Foggy, however, was fine with Matt being moved elsewhere. Elsewhere was private, at least part of time. Private was when he could finally talk to Matt and clear the air. There was a lot of air that needed clearing.

            "Morning," Matt said, his voice shaky and hoarse, when Foggy came in.

            "Hey." Foggy sat down. "How do you know it's me before I say anything?"

            "I...you walk a certain way. You use the same deodorant you did in college. If I can't hear you I smell you." Matt explained, his voice strengthening as he talked..

            "Uh-huh. But you can't see me."

            Matt was taken aback. "Of course not, I'm blind, remember?"

            "Are you? Because, I know you're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. And the freaky stuff you do - you can't be blind and do that."

            "How..."

            "I was in your apartment when the Devil dropped half-dead at my feet. It was kinda obvious at that point."

            Matt had no answer for that. Dead silence.

            "Well? Are you really blind? Or have you been lying to me since the day we met?"

            "It's hard to explain...both?"

            "Both?"

            "I'm blind, but the stuff that blinded me, the chemicals, it made everything else a hundred times stronger than normal people. So I sort of see, with my hearing and such. More like feeling than seeing."

            Foggy wasn't expecting that much honesty out of Matt. Much of the righteous anger he'd brought with him dissipated. "I didn't think you'd tell me," he admitted.

            Matt sighed. "I didn't think I ever would, either, but I owe you that much. And...it doesn't work that way anymore."

            "Huh?"

            "When I woke up...I still can't see, but now my other senses, they're mostly normal. I only hear and smell what's in the room with me."  
            "Seriously?"

            "Yes, Foggy. Seriously." Matt sounded disappointed. "It's getting a little better - I can sort things better than a few days ago - but I don't know if it'll come back or not."

            "Please tell me that means the Devil thing is over. Lying and secrets and pretending - you're a real jerk, Murdock. You better be straight with me now."

            "I am, Foggy. I am. You have no idea, how sorry I am about everything."

            "I hope that's not supposed to just fix years of lies and letting me believe you're someone you never were."

            "It's not. I owe you. So, so much." Matt furrowed his brow. "Actually, I thought you'd be lot angrier."

            "I was," Foggy confessed, "Except it's hard to be pissed at a guy who could die at any moment. And it's hard to stay pissed for two months. Maybe you're lucky after all. Nelson tempers are pretty sharp."

            Matt nodded. He'd seen Foggy flip out from time to time, mostly over stupid little things.

            "I'm still mad at you, by the way, and I don't know yet if I'll ever really trust you again," Foggy continued, wincing internally at the pain he could see in Matt's face. "But...you're my best friend. I - I love you. And nobody, I mean nobody - other than me - is allowed to kill you. Or kick your ass. That's my job."

            "Okay. Fair. We start over?"

            "Yeah, yeah, Matty, we start over."

 

Another week later

 

            Hospital employees bribe cheaply and Wesley needed only a twenty to be conveniently not noticed when he slipped into Matt Murdock’s room. The nurse on Fisk’s payroll said Murdock’s doctors not only thought he was going to survive but were confident enough to move him to another unit. It was better to make certain Murdock would never again be a problem for Fisk. Fisk wouldn't forgive another appearance by the Devil; it would be Wesley's head in the car door then.

            Initially Wesley thought Murdock was asleep or unconscious, but within moments he realized Murdock was not only awake, but knew he wasn’t alone. Out of curiosity, Wesley passed his hand in front of Murdock’s barely open and completely empty eyes. No reaction. Maybe he was wrong…no. Too many coincidences.

            “Hello, Mr. Murdock,” Wesley said pleasantly.

            A pause; then Murdock rasped in return. “Mr. Wesley.”

            Interesting. “That’s…correct. How did you know?”

            “Voice.”

            “I see. Are you sure there isn’t some other reason? For instance, that you’re not actually blind?” Straight to the point.

            Silence. “I am blind, Mr. Wesley.”

            “I’m not so sure about that. After all, how could a blind man survive a fight with Nobu? Easy answer - he wouldn’t.”

            “I don’t know a Nobu - ”

            “Yes, you do. You killed him. Don’t worry, that was actually convenient for us, so I won’t mention it to Nobu’s people. Now, they could figure it out the same way I did - how many men are disemboweled by a ninja on one night in Manhattan? - but they’re on their own. Although I really would like to know how you did it.”

            Murdock smirked. "I genuinely don't know if I killed this Nobu fellow. I'm missing a couple months of my life, surely someone with your level of information knows that."

            Hmm. Wesley knew Murdock had spent nearly two months in a coma, but he didn't know how much Murdock might have remembered from that night on the docks. "Well, I genuinely don't know what you do or do not remember. I do know that at a certain point, coincidences are no longer coincidences."

            “Coincidences don't make me less blind.”

            “Fair enough answer for me. Mr. Fisk, however…”

            He had Murdock’s full attention now. “Does Fisk know - ”

            “- Are you alive?” Wesley volleyed back. “Believe me, if Mr. Fisk had the slightest idea that you were the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, we wouldn’t be discussing this.”

            Another long pause. “So you’re not here to kill me.”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            Murdock didn’t waste time getting to the point. Wesley couldn’t help respecting the man, broken or not. “Mr. Fisk believes in force, violence, brutality, as a first option. If that’s what he wants, I get it done. But personally, I find violence more useful as a third or fourth option. I don’t see the point of killing and the unnecessary attention it attracts when a payoff - or some, conveniently held information - produces the same result.”

            “So you’re going to blackmail me.”

            “Blackmail is an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial proposal. Mr. Fisk need not know your other - persona - but I have a few terms you should know before you agree to anything.”

            “I bet you do,” Murdock said bitterly. “Like what?”

            “Well, obviously, never interfere with any of Mr. Fisk’s businesses again, legally or otherwise. Although I suspect you - or at least, the Devil - won’t be a problem for a long time to come.”

            “Don’t count me out yet, Mr. Wesley. It might be a while, but some day, I won’t be lying here listening to you.”

            “I know. That’s why I have additional conditions.” Wesley continued. “In addition to you and the Devil, I would expect no further interference in Mr. Fisk’s affairs by Mr. Nelson, Miss Page, or Mr. Urich.”

            “I can’t control them.”

            “No, but you can certainly discourage them. If it helps, I happen to know that a false police report regarding your ‘mugging’ exists. That would be the end of Mr. Nelson’s law career, correct? Might have the same effect on Ms. Temple’s professional license.“

            ”Fuck you.“

            Ignoring that. “And if they nevertheless do become a problem, well, violence is still an option. I’d suggest you suggest to them, strongly, that they step back.“

            “Anything else?”

            “Yes.” This would be the hard sell. “You leave New York, as soon as you are physically able, and you don’t come back. And I don’t mean New Jersey. I want at least one state between you and Mr. Fisk from now on.”

            Murdock said nothing for a long time. “New York is my home.”

            “Please. No family, nearly no friends, you have more reasons to leave than to stay. And if it’s your few friends that make you want to stay…I have options.”

            “Yeah. Killing people. Great option.” Murdock fell silent again, this time long enough that Wesley wondered if he were even conscious. “I’ll…consider your offer. Don’t hold your breath.”

            “Oh, I won’t. And, if you keep to my conditions, well, we’ll never speak again. I think that would be ideal for both of us.”

            “Just perfect,” Murdock snapped.

            “Let’s say, six months from now to relocate? The timetable might be negotiable. The rest is not.”

            “Get out.”

            “We have an agreement?”

            “Get. Out.” Murdock was remarkably able to inject some menace into the words.

           Wesley decided that was an agreement. “Let me know...when...you agree. Goodbye, Mr. Murdock. I hope we never meet again.”

 

            A couple of days after Wesley’s unwelcome visit, and after Matt was officially declared 'out of danger', he received a better visitor - Claire. Matt really didn't remember that night, and he as far as he knew she hadn’t come to see him in the hospital. Not that he would have known if she had.

            Claire knew him well enough to wear her usual deodorant and perfume; he knew it was her before she even came in. “Hey, Claire,” he croaked out. It was getting easier to speak, but still hard to get the first couple of words out.

            He could hear her smile. “How far away did you smell me?”

            “A floor, maybe.”

            “Glad to know some things don’t change. Might be losing your touch a bit, though, just one floor.” Claire pulled up a chair. “How are you feeling?”

            “Like crap, but better.”

            “Better than crap, that’s a step up,” she said awkwardly.

            “Yeah.” They were both quiet for a while. Matt figured he might as well ask what he needed to know. “It’s been awhile, that I remember anyway.”

            “Are you asking if I came to see you before?”

            Matt felt himself blush. “You got me.”

            Claire sighed. “I came by the first day, you were just out of surgery. Stayed out of the way a couple days, then I came almost every day for a while, but you were, uh, you know. Then I sort of had a fight with Foggy and I - I haven’t been here since. Karen e-mailed me that you were doing better, so here I am.”

            “You had a fight with Foggy so you didn’t visit me? How does that make sense?”

            “You were still - we still didn’t know if you’d make it or not. Foggy started second-guessing my decisions from that night and I guess I took it a bit personally.” She sounded embarrassed.

            Matt didn’t have anything to say at first. He’d assumed it was Foggy who brought him to the hospital, but it was Claire. “Why?”

            Claire sat silently for a while. “You were bleeding out internally. I made the call. It wasn’t hard to convince Foggy, he was pretty freaked out.” She hesitated. “I’d do it again.”

            “I’m not - I’m not mad at you. Not now. There were a couple times I would have been, but I‘m okay now,” Matt said quietly. “You’re a nurse. I’m lucky you didn’t haul me in that first time.”

            “Yeah. What _was_ I thinking?”

            “That you could use a charming blind guy around the house?”

            “Pretty sure that’s not it.” Claire started to run one of her fingers up and down across his hand. “Matt, I can’t do this any more. Whatever this is, I’ve had enough.”

            “That figures,” he answered. “I think I might've finally quit whatever this is.”

            She snorted. “If nothing else, we have good timing.”

            Matt felt a weight settle in his chest, not a painful one for a change, just sadness. “I think that might be all we have.”

            Claire was fighting back tears, he could hear it. “I came here to tell you, I’m leaving New York. I’ve had enough of this city. Time to start fresh.”

            You and me both, Matt thought. “That’s - that’s a good thing. I don’t ever want you in trouble again.”

            “Me neither. I wish you could do that - leave all this behind.”

            Matt thought of Wesley’s blackmail plan. As much as he didn’t want to accept that offer, it was probably a good idea, at least for the people around him. “I might. Leave it.” He couldn’t shrug, so he rolled his eyes. “I have time to think about it.”

            His best guess was that Claire had nodded. He could feel her come closer to him, then felt her lips on his forehead for just a moment. “Good-bye, Matt,” she told him, and left.

 

 

            Father Lantom had to give Matthew Murdock some credit; whatever else he was involved in, Matthew knew a good secretary when he found one. Miss Page was not only pretty and charming, but extremely organized and very perceptive. She had kept him up-to-date as things had gotten worse, and as they were improving. But the most recent call from Karen was both heartening and disturbing. Matthew was improving rapidly, enough so that he might soon be sent to rehabilitation, but Karen thought Matthew was more troubled in the last few days. She asked him to visit Matthew if he could.

            He had definitely thought of visiting, but given Matthew’s tendency towards reticence, he had thought it might be better to wait until Matthew wanted to see him. Karen’s request seemed a good compromise, though he still worried about what he might find when he arrived. 

            "Matthew?" The young man stirred and looked in Lantom's general direction.

            "Father?" Matthew wrinkled his nose. "Four lattes?"

            "Just three. You're doing much better than the last time we met."

            Matthew looked confused. "When we talked before?"

            "No. Here. I saw you, briefly, a few weeks ago."

            Matthew shrugged, left side only. "Things are coming back. My hearing. Smell. Not memory."

            "Perhaps that's a blessing." Lantom seated himself. "Your friend, Karen, asked me to come see you. She's a lovely girl. Smart, too."

            "Thanks. Pretty sure it's Foggy she's in love with, but thanks anyway."

            "She thinks you're troubled."

            Matthew chewed his lip. "Aren't I always?"

            "True," Lantom admitted. "But she thought perhaps more than usual. Is there anything you'd like to talk about? Confessional rules apply."

            A long silence. Matthew drew his left hand into and out of a fist, several times. "Yes." Pause. "You came to see me before? I don't remember."

            "Foggy...tracked me down and asked me to come and give you last rites. Apparently your physicians felt you were down to hours. Foggy thought that the rites might give you some comfort." Lantom sighed. "You weren't in a condition to remember anything."

            "I guess not," Matthew said softly. He was quiet again for a time. "Father...I wanted to die. I remember that. I wanted it over."

            "Wanting to die, and trying to make it happen - they're different things, Matthew."

            "Are they?" Matthew tried to sit up, with mixed results. "I thought I went after F - the man I told you about - because he killed my friend and I knew he'd kill more people. But maybe I wanted him to kill me, too."

            "I wondered that myself, the last time we talked. But, you were very angry. I think it was rage that sent you, not a death wish."

            "Didn't I have reason to be angry? He killed Elena. He tried to kill Karen and Foggy. But I end up here, and he ends up getting married and taking control of even more of the city. Karen told me once, if God really exists, Fisk would get what was coming to him. He didn't. How does he win? How can I try so hard, and lose so much, and Fisk wins?"

            "I don't have an answer for you," Lantom said sadly. "What I do know, is that you were hours, maybe minutes, from death. I gave you the rites. You didn't die. I won't say anything is meant to happen, or claim to know its purpose. But it did turn out this way. Perhaps Fisk won. But did you lose?"

           Matthew's voice cracked, and he started crying. "Father, he - Fisk's man - told me I should leave. Get out of New York. Or they might come after my friends again. I don't want to leave, but I can't - I can't make things worse."

            "You already know what you're going to do, you don't need to ask me. Or Him." Matthew was sobbing now, and Lantom didn't think there was anything more to say. "Get well, Matthew. Let yourself heal. Time brings answers."


	6. Epilogue

College Park, Maryland

August 2018

            The campus shuttle dropped Matt off in front of his apartment building and its much-needed air conditioning. Matt stepped into his apartment, turned the air conditioning up higher and restarted his laptop. The only e-mail received since he left work was from Ben, checking to see if Matt had heard the news. Matt replied to him with a terse ‘yes’, and pushed the laptop away. He set his phone next to it. He’d probably be hearing from Karen, Foggy and…Wesley…soon.

            Matt had called Wesley not long after he spoke to Father Lantom. He agreed to Wesley's blackmail, on the condition that Wesley tell him just what had happened on that night. Wesley didn't sugarcoat it and Matt had no indication Wesley was lying, not that Matt had really expected anything else. In retrospect, Matt wasn't sure he should have asked; some things are better not remembered.

            Matt spent most of a year in the hospital or in rehabilitation, slowly regaining the use of his body and gradually recovering his sharp senses. Somewhat ironically, the worst injuries in the long-term had been not the abdominal injuries, but the slashed muscles in his back and leg. Even now, he sometimes had trouble moving his arm from the shoulder. Raising his arm was out of the question. He still limped a bit, and his lungs had never completely recovered. Becoming the Devil was never going to happen again.

            Only a couple of weeks after he was discharged from treatment, the offer had come. House attorney for the Thurgood Marshall Law Library. No clients, but lots of law, lots of articles to review and eventually to write, plenty of school kids to encourage. And a few states away from New York. Foggy swore he hadn’t passed Matt’s name to the library, and Matt always suspected Wesley was behind the ‘dream job’. Still, other than the summer weather, it had been a dream job.

            He wasn’t the only one with the job of his dreams; when Nelson & Murdock folded, as it had to with only Foggy available, Foggy had received an offer from a top law firm. Foggy now had an office with a view, a nice car and a house in New Jersey, without having to completely sell his soul as the firm let him do _pro bono_ as much as he liked. The firm also hired Karen to be Foggy’s assistant, but she left after a year. She had moved in with Foggy after he proposed, and the commute didn’t sit well with her. So she took a state job helping people with public housing issues. They were supposed to get married in November, and they were both very happy.

            Meanwhile, after a stint as an emergency room nurse in St. Louis, Claire had moved to Detroit and opened a free health clinic. She was dating one of the doctors who helped out at the clinic. Doris Urich died while Matt was still in the hospital, but she had passed sooner and in less pain than the doctors had predicted. Ben took early retirement to spend time with her; now he blogged, more as hobby than profession. He was thrilled to no longer have an editor. He kept Matt updated on things in Hell’s Kitchen, but he had respected Matt’s request to stay away from Fisk. So had Foggy and Karen.

            Matt didn’t know the details - none of his friends pried into Fisk’s affairs beyond what was in the papers - but he knew Fisk had married Vanessa and they were dividing their time between New York and Bern. As far as anyone knew, Fisk had turned over day-to-day control of his non-philanthropic businesses to Wesley, who apparently managed to run things with a minimum of mayhem. Wesley had been true to his word; neither Matt’s other identity nor the false police report had ever surfaced. No one had bothered his friends.

            But Fisk in Washington? Matt rubbed his hand over the cheekbone Fisk had broken. The bone was long healed but he still had a scar, and it always seemed to ache whenever he thought of Fisk, which he tried not to do. He wasn’t sure what would be worse - Fisk having the influence of a Congressional seat, or what would happen if Fisk found out the Devil was still alive, if not exactly kicking.

            Matt’s cell started ringing. Unknown caller. Wesley. “Well, here goes nothing,” Matt muttered, and reached for the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> One thought I had, but couldn't figure out how to work into the story, was the reason Matt stayed comatose for so long and didn't have his super-senses when he woke up. I figure Matt's brain has been on hyper-over-drive for 20 years now, and this was the first time since his accident that his brain had a chance to rest. It wasn't giving up the peace and quiet until it was good and ready. And after two months of shutdown, it took a while before his supersenses were up and running again. 
> 
> The whole story started with my belief that there is no way Matt could have not ended up in the hospital. Then I thought, if Matt's in the hospital, Foggy will call Karen and she'll go to the hospital instead of going to the courthouse to go through the files. Because Karen didn't go to the courthouse, she never found Fisk's mother's information, and she never took Ben to see Fisk's mother. Hence no reason for Wesley to kidnap her or for Karen to kill Wesley or for Fisk to kill Ben. A live Wesley would have found Owsley's funky numbers long before Fisk got around to looking at the files and then bye-bye Hoffman. The butterfly effect in action. 
> 
> Meanwhile, the whole outcome is turned on its head: the good guys 'lost' but everyone's alive and reasonably happy on both sides. Whereas on the show, the good guys 'won' but with death, trauma and angst on both sides. But that's just my opinion.


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